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Emotions on a razor's edge as jockeys ply trade

Peter Hanlon

Inner sanctum: The jockeys' room at Caulfield is a busy place as riders prepare for their next mount. Photo: Pat Scala

A jockeys' room on a group 1 race day has a little bit of everything, and then some.

THEY'RE about to jump in the second at Caulfield, and the jockeys' room is already a passing parade of small men with bright clothes and colourful language. For the rest of this spring Saturday afternoon, it will bustle with the activity of stripping, dressing, weighing and wise-cracking, fall quiet as they repair to their dangerous work, then bubble again on their return.

''You sit in here all day, you have a ball,'' says Chris Symons, the self-confessed clown who on this day is the butt of every passing joke, thanks to the plaster encasing his left foot, broken when it found its way under fellow rider Tom Sadler's tyre three weeks ago in the Sale car park. ''You couldn't have a camera in here,'' Symons adds. ''It can be a bit rude, crude and outrageous.''

It can be brow-furrowingly serious, too. James McDonald is camped in front of locker 58, normally occupied by Symons, who is happy to cede his spot, but has ''seen people get emotional'' over their preferred place.

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McDonald, a fast-rising 20-year-old from New Zealand, has five rides and is ready for the first of them with an hour to spare. His ''game face'' is already on as he flexes his whip, then watches race two on a television, bouncing from foot to foot, up on his toes, throwing air punches out in front of his chest. He's almost embarrassed to be asked. ''It's just warming up.''

For fellow Kiwi Daniel Stackhouse, the day is already over. He's already had a shower and is suited, tied and about to head for home as Dom Tourneur drops his bag in front of locker 66. Tourneur's one ride - on Alcopop in the Caulfield Stakes - is more than an hour away; by then, Stackhouse will be home having a nap.

''I rode in the last race [at Cranbourne] last night, got home at 11.30, wound down, scrubbed my gear,'' Stackhouse says. ''I was up at 3.15 this morning for trackwork.'' His Guineas day starts and ends with a ride on 200-1 shot Verification, which trails the field home in the first.

Just along from Tourneur sits the other end of the spectrum. Craig Williams has rides in eight of the nine races, and the calm, organised demeanour of someone who fits Symons' description of him as ''the most professional bloke in here''. It helps that he can pay someone to do what for most in the room is the time-consuming grind of their daily riding ritual. Where the vast majority unzip their work bags to unpack breastplates, girths, surcingle, saddles, helmets, vests, boots, cleaning gear and all the other bits and pieces that help bring man and horse together on the track, Williams has Vincent Mills, jockeys' valet, to do it for him.

''I keep all their gear - a full set of saddles, everything,'' says Mills, 70, from his aluminium bench, where his work for Williams and Kerrin McEvoy (and Damien Oliver if he was riding) is meticulously laid out and ready for collection. ''Tonight I take that home, launder it, make sure everything's right, and on Wednesday it'll be back here, and when they walk in it's all set up, ready to go.''

Pinned to the wall is a newspaper formguide on which Mills has marked the weights for his men for each race. If all three are riding he can be juggling 30 saddles, which baffles some. ''It's like the line out of the bible: 'I know my sheep and my sheep know me'. You just know whose gear it is.''

The neat-as-a-pin state of the room gradually dips as the day wears on, but nothing like it would on a wet afternoon. ''If it was raining, there'd be mud and shit everywhere in here,'' Symons says. As Williams brushes up on form he has already spent much of Friday studying, Symons says there is no jealousy from those who can't afford such luxury assistance. The regular-guy jockeys like Tourneur, who sits along from Williams shining his boots and spraying Mr Sheen on his saddle.

Like any work place there is a pecking order, and Tourneur is glad he's ''a relaxed sort of bloke'' who can fly in from Adelaide on a Saturday morning, land among the big names of his craft and not feel intimidated. ''For an out-of-towner, the first time you come here it can be a bit eerie,'' he says, admitting he's seen many who don't assimilate so easily. ''You see them come in, basically looking like little lost sheep. For some people the moment can get the better of them. You've got to find your own way, how to handle it.''

Steven King, a soon-to-turn 43-year-old veteran, remembers Greg Hall and Pat Hyland being the noise-makers when he started out, and has seen the dynamic change over the years. ''They seem to be a bit more confident now,'' he says of younger riders. ''Maybe that's just the way of the world.''

There are plenty of options should a jockey want a place to hide. Entry to the main room is through a basic lounge, where those with gaps between rides can be found reclining in front of televisions, their trade playing out around the country. Some courses have a room with bunks to grab 40 winks; all have a masseur to repair tired muscles.

Off to McDonald's right the carpet gives way to tiles where a regular path is beaten to and from the spa, showers and sauna, the latter monitored by registered nurse Debbie Hansen. You're as likely to see a man naked as clothed in the jockeys' room, but Hansen is oblivious, propped on a chair next to the basin, crocheting and embroidering a Christmas quilt.

As King reclines in the spa reading a racebook, she explains her job as monitor of sauna visits, which are limited to 15 minutes per jockey per hour (in which they can lose between 300 and 500 grams).

''They sign in, sign out, and if anything does happen to them I look after them,'' she says, as an alarm sounds to alert her that it's time to get Brenton Avdulla out.

For those who can eat, there's a kitchen (empty each time The Age passes by), with salads, cold meats and a bain marie containing a slab of lasagne, untouched bar one missing serve, which Tourneur is happy to claim. ''I'm riding 59 kilos today, generally I ride 54, so we had a little bit of spare room.''

There is another empty room on Guineas day, just off the lounge with ''Lady Jockeys'' quaintly penned on the door. No women are riding this day, and its eight lockers are empty, scales untouched, and TV playing to nobody. Michelle Payne's appearance in the lounge, dressed to the nines and popping in to say hello to her workmates, adds a rare touch.

There is genuine camaraderie (Sydney jockey Corey Brown stops off to chide the crutch-bearing Symons, ''And you've got the hide to call me a dumb @$#!''). Given the gravity of their trade, things have been known to get heated, too.

''I've seen blokes wrestling on the floor right here,'' Symons says, pointing to the carpet at his feet. ''But honestly, it's such a rare occurrence.'' There is not only big money at stake, but lives too. If somebody puts your life in danger in a race, obviously that's going to get you pretty worked up.''

The passing parade continues, with pats on the back for winners and losers alike. A beaming Dwayne Dunn's narration to Luke Nolen and Steven Arnold of All Too Hard's kick off the turn is cut short by an official racing in to drag him upstairs for the Guineas presentation. This is one dash through the room all jockeys are happy to make.

The scales in the corner are mounted over and over, silks are discarded and new ones donned; every 35 minutes a procession of frighteningly light men begin the march to the mounting yard and their next shift in a unique craft. Only one returns fulfilled.

McDonald finishes the day stuffing his bag with gear and his face with cheese and crackers. The banter in the room doesn't bother him, but it's not how he approaches his day at the races. ''You're concentrating and thinking the whole time, especially when it's carnival time. It's hard enough riding a winner on a normal day, let alone these big ones.''

His afternoon has finished with a second in the last race, but it can't gloss over a 14-meeting suspension for interference during an earlier ride. ''Bad day,'' he says, heading for the showers. Debbie Hansen and her crocheted advent calendar have already left for home.